Masked Men
by anotherblastedromantic
Summary: Phantom of the Opera vs. V for Vendetta. What will happen when two masked terrorists with similar storylines duke it out in an arena for thrill crazed phans? I could have put this in crossovers, but I'm a rebel. Please reView.
1. Two Masked Men, One Opera House

**Author's Note:** BEFORE YOU READ: this probably won't be as funny unless you have seen the new movie, "V for Vendetta". I would suggest seeing it at once, if you like explosions and classical music.

One of many other PotO parodies with a new twist. I believe this might be the only VfV parody on the block at the moment. Don't a feel special. Please read. And review. Because the word review has a V in it.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own any masks, and I do not own any men, so therefore I cannot own any masked men, therefore I do not own V for Vendetta, Phantom of the Opera, or any other characters in here that I make fun of. I do not own a cat, and I do not own Andrew Lloyd Webber, so therefore I do not own lyrics or the actual production of CATS. I also do not own the Three Musketeers or Guy Fawkes. To anyone else, please don't sue me.

* * *

Erik looked vaguely on as he stood in the shadowy rafters of the _Opera Populaire's_ majestic stage. It was opening night for the newest show, "_Le Chat_". It was indeed a tedious performance; Erik still hadn't the faintest idea why those two bumbling baboons otherwise known as Monsieur Andre and Monsieur Firmin, the producers as it were, had chosen the show. "_Le Chat_" was a silly bit of nonsense written by some lunatic called Monsieur Andre Lloyd Webber- who Erik was positive wasn't nearly as great a composer as he. Erik had sat up nights trying to discover a shred of a plot to this show, but apparently they were sans plot: it was two hours about cats. Cats that sing and dance. Who on earth could possibly stand two hours of sitting around watching people jump around in furry ears and cloth-and-pipe-cleaner-made tails? The worst part was _La Carlotta_- that pompous rhinoceros of a diva- was playing Grizabella, the washed-up, has-been diva kitty; Erik had to admit the part was aptly cast. 

Anyway, Carlotta had been droning through the second refrain of her big solo song, _Memory_, which was just as boring, slow, and sappy as the musical itself, and Erik was in the process of dragging a giant anchor up to the beams above the legs of the curtains to drop upon the diva's furry-ear-laden head.

"Memoryyyyyyyyy… alllll ahh-looooooone in ze moooooooon-huh-liiiiiiiiigh-tah!" Carlotta belted from below. Erik suffered an involuntary twitching attack which almost caused him to drop his anchor. Suddenly, a shadow flitting by caught his yellow eye. Who could that be? None of the crew members who operated the stage wandered up here in this area- they all knew it was "haunted" by the Opera Ghost, and whoever went up there had a very bad chance of ever coming down again, unless it was with a noose around their neck- a short drop and a sudden stop. Erik allowed himself a small chuckle at the thought of that pervert Joseph Buquet. But who was that there? Erik set aside his anchor to climb up a little higher and get a closer look at the figure standing over the stage. As he started he discovered it was a young woman, looking hurriedly around, almost as if she knew someone was watching her. Erik crept in closer to take a good look at her face: she was pretty enough, with wide doe eyes, a pleasant mouth, and a curly mop of hazelnut-colored hair. But she wasn't nearly as enticing as his dearest, most darling Christine. Ah, Christine, Christine! The sweet angel who, when she sang, could tame a herd of wild stallions. With her sunlight-kissed locks and her innocent sapphire eyes, she was his muse, his soul mate, his cherished one! When he though of her pouting, scrumptious lips- oh, how he longed to kiss them!- he felt as if he could fly. The feeling was so strong that he actually did fly, or rather, lost his balance and fell smack on his face… um… mask. The mysterious young woman gasped and took a couple of steps back as Erik cursed under his breath and picked himself up with a grand, melodramatic sweep of his long black cape. Running his skeletal fingers through the hair of the fashionable wig which sat now somewhat disheveled on his masked head, he assumed a threatening, prince-of-darkness position over the cowering girl.

"Goodness!" she cried, "I thought you were… somebody else."

"The streeeeeeet-luh-haaaamp dies, anoooother niiiight is oooover; anooooooother day eez daaaaaawniiiiiing…"

"What are you doing up here? Snooping around the Opera Ghost's layer, were we? What were we looking to find?" Erik hissed, once he had regained his composure. He took a few menacing steps towards the girl, fondling his Punjab lasso.

"P-please," she whimpered, "We don't have much time. Everyone in this building needs to be evacuated immediately."

"And what," Erik took a few steps closer, "would be so important that it has to interrupt a performance of _Le Chat_?"

"Well, for one thing, this lady's singing sucks," she gestured to Carlotta below, who was now belting the crescendo, ("Toooooouuuuuuch muh-heeeeeeeee! It's so eeeeeasy to luh-heeeeeeaaaave meeeeeeee! All aloooooooh-hone in ze memoryyyyyyy, of my dayyyys in ze suuuu-gasp-uuuuuuhhhn…") "And secondly, there's a man, a terrorist, in the opera house!" She looked nervously around, "He is going to blow up the _Opera Populaire!_"

Erik stared through the emotionless white mask upon his face at the frightened young woman. "No way."

"Way."

"No way!"

"Way."

"No freaking wa-"

"Would you mind?" the young woman said somewhat irritably, "There's a bunch of people's lives at risk, so I really need you to-" She stopped and gasped at something behind him. Erik turned to find another figure in the darkness. Erik could barely see him, for he was swathed in dark clothing as well. The figure was humming Beethoven's Symphony No. 9 to himself as he fiddled around with a wire that connected the chandelier to the stage, his back turned away.

"Pardon me!" Erik hissed as menacingly and politely as he could. The figure turned promptly around. Erik stood aghast; the stranger was exactly like him! Well, as exactly alike as two guys wearing masks could be, anyway. The man wore a pale mask upon his face- it had a comical, wide grin spread underneath a long, three-musketeers-esque moustache and goatee to go with it. The man wore a fedora almost identical to Erik's- indeed, he had seen it in _Le Gap _last time he was there- as well as a long black cape. In his gloved hands, the other masked man was holding a carton with "CAUTION: EXLOSIVES" painted in big red letters.

"Evey?" the man said to the young woman, "Why are you up here? I thought you were downstairs in Box 5, trying to seduce the Prime Minister of China until I come down there and give him a slow, painful death! Aren't you enjoying the music?"

"Thank the Lord above that woman's solo has finally ceased! No wait, she's trying to squeeze in one more repeat of the refrain, but… nope, the curtain is coming down on her, the conductor is signaling that guy with the hook, wait… she's fighting her way on stage! No, never mind, the chorus line has overtaken her!" Evey gave a blow-by-blow account. "Hey, what's that blonde kid doing over there upstage?"

Erik glanced down to just catch Christine come onstage to begin her solo. Sweet silvery music filled the opera house's great dome, seeping through the walls and rafters like melodic honey. "You will not destroy the _Opera Populaire_. Not before I destroy you first!" Erik hissed, producing his Punjab lasso and uncoiling it.

The masked man, had his face not been covered by that foppish parody mask of Guy Fawkes the rebel, glared at Evey. "Nice going, tattletale."

"I couldn't help it!"

"Who are you?"

The man sighed, counted several things on his fingers, and took a deep breath. "Voilà! In view, a humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of Fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is it vestige of the vox populi, now vacant, vanished, as the once vital voice of the verisimilitude now venerates what they once vilified. However, this valorous visitation of a by-gone vexation, stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin van-guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition. The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive, not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous. Verily, this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose vis-à-vis an introduction, and so it is my very good honor to meet you and you may call me V."

Erik's mouth had been open for so long he had started to drool out of his mask. "Wow. Nice use of consonance."

"Why, thank you."

"You must have a lot of time on your hands."

"Well, it is one of several hobbies."

"One being terrorism?"

"Veraciously."

Evey had fallen asleep now, and was rail of the rafter. Eventually, she lost her balance and went tumbling over the edge. V made an attempt to grab at her, but missed. Luckily, however, she broke her fall on Monsieur Leandre Hugo, a rather obese man who played the once again aptly cast Bustopher Jones. The fallen young lady struggled for several minutes in Monsieur Hugo's rolls of fat, and then popped out presently with a rather dismayed "oh!"

The commotion caused the performers on the stage to break out into hysterics. (Erik found that they sort of reminded him of ants: hard workers when together, but if you spill even a single drop of water on their ant hill or break their line, they will suddenly scurry around in a mad frenzy, not having a single clue of what to do with themselves.) They all ran around screaming, stampeding, forming a religious cult, breaking up their religious cult, forming another cult, trampling young ballerinas, etc. Evee, in the midst of all the panic, ran to go hide in a corner, but saw a young girl with beautiful, long blonde curls standing still with a wide-eyed distant look on her face, almost as if she were in a trance.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" cried another random ballerina but with dark hair, her feet in a position of a penguin's at a 180-degree angle.

"Way to quote the obvious," Erik- who had come down from the rafters- commented, "I've been standing right in front of you in the spotlight for 6 minutes now!"

The ballerina (called Meg) uttered strange gasps and gurgles of terror, fainted, woke up, and meekly penguin-shuffled away.

V had hooked up all the wires to the bombs in the rafters, and was now preparing to fetch Evey in the corner. He cut a random cord, took a dive from the rafters Indiana-Jones-style, and swung gallantly down to center stage, his cape like black swan's wings beating poetically against the breeze.

Erik looked up in disbelief. "He can't do that! That's totally my move!"

The masked bomber landed gracefully and made a bow.

"There's not enough room in this fanfiction for two masked troublemakers with a fondness for classical music," Erik growled in a foreboding, contemptuously low voice.

"I suppose I'll just have to kill you then." V returned just as scathingly.

They froze. Suddenly, a giant back hole appeared- as they are wont to do in these stories- and sucked them all into a deep, dark unknown.

This could only be the work of a fanfiction author.


	2. Arena de Nike

**Disclaimer:** I OWN EVERYTHING! MWAHAHAHAHAHA! Happy late April Fools! Woo-hoo! Okay, I know you know I'm lying, so it was worth a try.

**Author's Note: **Hey everybody! First off, thanks or all your reviews! Really, I had only expected to get one or two. Keep up the great work!

Secondly, I want to talk a little about last chapter that I didn't put in the author's note before. All the Phantom of the Opera characters have a little bit from everything in them. So you might see some Leroux, and then a dash of Kay, and then you may see something from the 2005 movie. So yeah.

Also, I got a few comments about when Erik said, "Wow. Nice use of consonance." There is some debate over whether or not it's consonance or alliteration. I put consonance because alliteration is the repeating of BEGINNING SOUNDS in several words. Consonance is the repeating of CONSONANTS all throughout several words. Alliteration is a form of consonance, and assonance. In this case, if you look closely, V does have a few words in there such as "however," and "of," when he pronounces it correctly, that indicate that V is everywhere in the words, not just at the beginning. Therefore, it is consonance.

THIRD AND MOST IMPORTANT: In this chapter, I poke fun at not only the characters, but fanfiction authors, including myself. Understand that this is only a caricature of SOME fanfiction authors, and I'm not stereotyping. I sincerely hope none of you will be offended by this. That would be… not cool, to say in the least. Anyway, tell me what you think about this brave new venture of mine. Thanks.

* * *

Author glanced at her watch. They were late. She had booked this parallel universe space-time-continuum arena a little later than she had expected due to procrastination. Schoolwork- as it always did and will continue to do- had taken up most of her free time, and this little escapade had been on her mind for quite a while now. However, this was the off-season for authors and readers alike, with exams and whatnot, which affected the arena's performance. Pretty much, when nobody bothered to read, the arena was to say in the least sluggish, and gave half-baked work. Author had heard of one anonymous fanfiction author who booked an arena for some Lord of the Rings characters against Harry Potter characters, and wound up with only the lower half of Gimli the Dwarf, a Lord Voldemort with only half the evil powers he was supposed to come with, and a Hermione that unfortunately due to a bad dial-up connection service came out as a Mary-Sue. Legolas Greenleaf didn't turn up at all, and the author never really found out where he went. Anyway, Author's reserved characters were taking an annoying amount of time being transported to their designated reservation, and the crowd in the bleachers was getting skittish. 

"I really hope the server didn't lose them somewhere," she muttered, wondering if she could do a good show with only half of Raoul. It would probably be funnier, if not a little gruesome.

But sure enough, a black hole opened up in the middle of the arena, and a bunch of people were spat out of it.

V stood up and dusted himself off. "Where are we?"

"Welcome to the Arena de Nike!" Author shouted from her throne floating above them, "I am Anonymous Author, pleased to write you."

"Arena de Nike?" Erik snickered.

"Nike… it's… no, it's not the athletic brand, it means victory," Author fumbled, "Don't ask me, okay? I didn't make it up, I just rented it!"

"Why are we here?" Carlotta roared, and burst into melodramatic tears.

"I don't understand," sang Christine. From the looks of the soubrette, Evey noticed, this was nothing new.

"Why do you want us here?"

"To entertain," Author grinned maliciously, "Entertain me and my readers." She gestured to a small crowd of girls gathering in the seats.

"I still don't understand why-"

"OMG! I totallyluv you, Erik!" One girl jumped up and squealed. Erik grimaced, and took a frightened step backward.

"Pretty much, you guys interact with each other, I publish it, and my readers enjoy it." Author turned to the small crowd, "By the way, this story doesn't come cheap, ya know. All readers who do not give a review will be blackbagged!" Some of the crowd whimpered and slunk back into the shadows meekly.

"This is both torture and dictatorship," V stepped forward bravely, "We can take you, all of us together. Behind your anonymousness, there is nothing but a fan. You couldn't stand up to me for a second. I'm a rebel terrorist who believes in fighting violence with violence, believes in the power of an idea, what are you?"

"You… you can't do that." Author was taken aback for a moment.

"And why not?"

"Because it's against the rules."

"Well, I am not one who takes-"

"SILENCE, KNAVE!" Author roared, before sending a lightning bolt from the simulated sky, which shot down with a great thundering noise and a CRACK sound, and hit V square in the noggin. The blow sent the caped man flying. Evey ran to him. The readers bounced up and down in their seats with excitement. Author was jubilant. "Whoa! I didn't know I could do that!"

"Do you see what happens when you run your big mouth?" Erik snapped at V.

"Silence is the greatest sin," V returned weakly.

"V! I… I don't want you to die," Evey said tearfully. Every female in the Arena de Nike sniffled and sighed, "Awwww! That's so romantic!"

Erik dabbed at his eyes with a tissue, and turned on Christine. "Why didn't _you_ do that for me?"

Christine looked at him for a moment, before going into a dream-like trance. Erik gave her some Renalin™, and she snapped out of it. "Huh? Oh. I guess it's because I'm a cooler character than her."

Evey sprung erect from her crouching position beside V and slowly turned around. "What did you just say?"

"I'm a cooler character than you. I can sing and dance ballet and go into frequent trances and be disturbed by a stalker pedophile."

"I am not a pedophile! You look practically 21 from this distance, and you certainly looked older in the movie and in various Broadway productions!" Erik protested.

"Just because you have A.D.D. and can sing doesn't make you cool," Evey put her fists on her hips. "You have to possess brains. You have to have more of an internal conflict that is resolved in the end, even though a new disturbation still remains."

"I do have an internal conflict! My daddy died of sickness!"

"Oh please," Evey rolled her eyes. "My parents were both protestors of teir oppressive government; my father went first and my mother was blackbagged and dragged off to who-knows-where before my very own 10-year-old eyes. How do you like them apples?"

Christine's pale, round face turned red in anger. "Are you challenging me?"

"Maybe I am."

Erik, into the moment, began the slow, rhythmic chanting: "Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight…"

"Uh oh, rhythmic chanting," one girl whispered in the bleachers, "That isn't a good sign."

"Have you reviewed yet?" Author snapped. The girl tried to hide herself by burying her head in a book.

"Fight, fight, fight, fight…."

"I could whoop your hind in under a minute; you wouldn't be a challenge at all." Evey looked at her fingernails.

"Your brain is challenged!"

"Your face is challenged!"

"Your Mom is challenged!"

"Oooooooooh…" the audience gasped.

"You need some ice for that burrrnnnn!" Author cried in glee.

"Let's go, right here, right now!" Christine put up her fists.

"I'm ready when you are, princess." Evey readied herself in that one position that I can't spell that you see in all those Jackie Chan and Charlie's Angels movies. You know, the "hiyyyyy-YAH!" one.

A ring slowly rose around them, the rest of the characters chanting outside of it.

The bell rung with a _dinnnnng_, and round one began.


	3. Christine vs Evey

**Disclaimer:** The definiton of a disclaimer, as according to is"a repudiation or denial of responsibility or connection;a renunciation of one's right or claim." Therefore, you and I both know the purpose of me taking the time to type "disclaimer" in bold letters at the beginning of this thrid installment of this crossover story making fun of characters from different stories which are not my own, is to tell you that I am obviously making fun of characters from different stories which are not my own. Hence, I do not own anything in this story. I do not even own the chez lounge with jet propellors. That belongs to the prop department in the stock room of the Fanfiction Headquarters.

**Author's Note: **Um... wow. I had meant to update this much sooner. It had been sitting in my notbook for about two weeks, screaming "update me! update me!" It is not a good sound, the exhortive screams of a thrid fanfiction chapter locked in a notebook. Not a nice sound at all. Anyway, here is the first official battle scene smackdown. I'm curious to see if you guys liked the ending. It was a tough call, believe me, but I heard a few reviewers' opinions and decided to stick with them. So, please tell me if you liked the ending. Besides, it will give you an excuse to review me! Ah, I'm so desperate.

* * *

Christine was first to make a hit. She advanced and made a swoop with her right fist at her opponent. Evey ducked, and punched her in the stomach. Christine doubled over in pain. Now Evey had spent a considerable amount of time with V, who was of sorts a terrorist mastermind with a taste for dramatics. V had a way of waiting till the exact opportune moment to strike: the Domino Effect. He had taught her well. But Christine had angelic looks and innocent charm on her side. Christine clutched her stomach and fell to the ground, groaning and shaking. Evey's team let out a cheer. Evey crossed her arms and grinned smugly.

"I told you I could whoop your hind in under a minute." Christine waited till Evey was close enough to hive her a strong kick in the nose with her ballet slippered-heel. Evey yelped, stumbling back. Christine jumped up, flipped her long golden mane, sending off a charismatic wave which knocked Evey off her feet. She landed on her back with an "oof".

"What now, cracker? What now!" Christine shrieked victoriously.

Evey slowly got up, and tilted her neck from side to side, causing it to make the most unsettling popping and cracking noise. It was the sort of thing that all the villainesses did when fighting the blonde in Charlie's Angels. Pretty gross, actually.

"You ain't seen nothing yet," Evey chuckled, cracking her knuckles. The two women circled each other slowly. The crowd was going wild with excitement.

"I haven't seen this kind of fight since the battle of Legolas vs. Will Turner in the summer of 2003!" one reader cried.

"England against France," another rubbed her hands together, "this is gonna be good."

Christine gave Evey a drop-kick, but Evey blocked it with her arm and twisted it, sending Christine spinning off like a horizontal top.

"Hit her with the chair!" Madame Giry yelled.

"I don't have a chair!" Christine replied despairingly.

Author pulled out a guidebook and started flipping through it. "Let's see… maintenance… emergency calls… medical stations… Singaporean polka tunes…. Ah! Accessories," she flipped a couple of pages, "here we are. Chairs," she sent two lounge chairs down into the ring.

Christine ran and tried to pick up the massive plush chez lounge. "Do you have anything smaller?"

"Sorry." Author shrugged.

Evey pounced on the La-Z-Boy™ recliner complete with a drink holder and massage controls, and tried to pick it up. She tried several positions and angels, once trying to lift it by the arms, another time hugging it around the back. Weary, she decided to sit down and rest on its plush leather seat, panting. Christine was making an attempt to roll her chez lunge at Evey, in hopes of it somehow crushing the British young woman. However, chez lounges are not round, therefore cannot be rolled, so all the couch-like chair really did was flop over on its side menacingly.

Evey clicked the "massage" button. "Ooh! Simulated rolling effects! Nice…" she looked at a few more buttons, before noticing a big, shiny, red one. "Missile launch?" Evey pressed it. Two missiles came out of the arms and zoomed straight towards Christine, who shrieked and ducked behind the side of the chez lounge. The missiles wound up hitting the thing on its bottom bulk, almost destroying it, but still leaving it intact. Christine remained unharmed.

"Cool!" Evey clapped her hands frivolously.

Christine, enraged, searched frantically for any cool red buttons on her chair. Alas, she only found one, entitled "jet propulsion". When she pushed it, jets came out of the back legs, and, with Christine still hanging on, flew rapidly at Evey The chez lounge sort of scooped up Evey as well, acting as its own self-destructing missile. Evey and Christine clung to each other and screamed as the chez torpedo rounded about and swooped down at the recliner, exploding with a great "FWOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"

The audience was silent, sitting on the edge of their seats. Erik and V were at the ropes, craning their necks to see if either one was alive. A terrible silence sat heavy on the Arena de Nike for what seemed like hours. Raoul began to weep girlishly, until Meg bashed him on the back of the head with a Carlotta.

"Ooh!" a reader clapped, "I love a good Raoul bashing!"

"Have you reviewed yet?"

Suddenly, a dirty hand emerged from the rubble. The audience, Author, and all the characters leaned forward, and held their breaths. Christine slowly hoisted herself up out of the debris, her hair looking somewhat like the bride of Frankenstein's. All of the Opera characters let out a joyous cheer. Christine held a fist in the air. But once she was out, a few rocks shifted behind her feet, and a charred hand clawed out behind her. The Vendetta characters erupted in cheers and applause.

Author flipped again through her guidebook. "Well, the chairs are detonated, so let's try… sharp things!" she sent two weapons down into the arena, which landed on opposite sides of the ring. The two disheveled young women ran to go get each one. Evey ran to one corner, and produced a chainsaw. She revved it up with a crazy gleam in her eye, cackling evilly over the buzzing of her tool of torture. Christine stepped back, terrified, and reached down for her weapon; she produced a cute little electric shaver, which buzzed cheerily.

"Why do I get all the lame weapons?" Christine whined, but didn't have time to get an answer, for Evey lunged at her with her chainsaw, shrieking like a psycho banshee leprechaun. Christine ducked, circumvented her opponent, and with one last screech jumped on her back and made her attack.

The audience gasped in terror as Evey dropped the chainsaw and tried to push the ballerina off her back, but the damage had already been done. Christine had shaved Evey's curly brown locks off her head, making her unattractively bald.

"Nnnnnnnnoooooooooooo…" Evey moaned, crumpling in a heap to the ground. Christine dismantled her opponent, breathing heavily.

"I told you," she panted, "I was the better character."

Evey ran her hands over her smooth head, and glowered up at her slowly. "My turn."

"That's my line," V sulked.

Christine backed away slowly. Author decided- in the spirit of the Wachowski Brothers- to press the "slo-mo" button on the arm of her throne. In a cool Matrix-esque motion, Evey grabbed her chainsaw, cool-wind-swishy wave things trailing behind her, and swiftly ran its whirring blade through Christine's neck. Erik roared in fear, and tired to run to save his Angel of Music, but V held him back. Christine's magnificent blonde head fell slowly to the ground, bouncing a little bit. Evey let out a Xena-Warrior-Princess cry, and revved the chainsaw zealously. Raoul burst into tears, Carlotta applauded, until Meg picked her up and began bashing Raoul with her. Author had forgotten she left the slo-mo button still on, and pressed it again to deactivate it.

"Wow! That was some game! I guess- due to the circumstances- Evey is the champion!"

The bell dinged, and the ring was lowered. Evey's team- both antagonists and misunderstood protagonists- ran to her, and lifted her on their shoulders, cheering. Erik was tearfully trying to stick Christine's head back on her motionless, decapitated body. Raoul stood nearby, nursing his wounds, sniveling.

"Don't worry, Erik," Author called, "I'll call the medics. They'll sew her up, and- despite a few scars- she'll be as good as new."

Author pressed a button, and a few people all resembling characters from the Wizard of Oz came out with surgeon masks and a stretcher. The Scarecrow, Tinman, and Lion loaded the body onto the stretcher, and Dorothy yanked the head out of Erik's hands, stashing it in her picnic basket and skipping off merrily back into the shadows from whence she came.

"I think." Author added.


End file.
